


The Twin Pregnancy Belly Kink And Vaguely Erotic Birth Fic That I Can't Think Of A Title For

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly worship, Birth, M/M, Mpreg, multiple pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock noticed it for the first time when he was just hardly a month into his pregnancy. John had caught Sherlock buttoning a rather tight shirt. The buttonholes were straining across his muscular abdomen, and though Sherlock said nothing of it, he couldn't help but observe John's discomfort and subsequent disappearance into the loo. Not too long after, a somewhat flustered-looking John Watson exited the bathroom and pointedly avoided looking in Sherlock's general direction until he had covered himself further with a suit jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twin Pregnancy Belly Kink And Vaguely Erotic Birth Fic That I Can't Think Of A Title For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suckitandsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suckitandsee/gifts).



> This is an old fic I wrote, about a year ago if not more. Be warned that this was back when my headcanon for Omega anatomy was really weird, so there is vaginal birth here. 
> 
> I'm posting it just a few days after my last post because I feel like a shit author for not giving you guys what you originally came here for. I've been having a really hard time writing recently, I can't seem to write anything good enough to publish anymore. I don't know. Almost all my stuff now is plot, and I want so badly to write porn, but I just can't do it...I don't know. I'll stop complaining. Enjoy, and know that the next fic is more than likely going to be something plotty because that's what I have in my stores.

Sherlock noticed it for the first time when he was just hardly a month into his pregnancy. John had caught Sherlock buttoning a rather tight shirt. The buttonholes were straining across his muscular abdomen, and though Sherlock said nothing of it, he couldn't help but observe John's discomfort and subsequent disappearance into the loo. Not too long after, a somewhat flustered-looking John Watson exited the bathroom and pointedly avoided looking in Sherlock's general direction until he had covered himself further with a suit jacket. 

 

Then, as Sherlock's stomach slowly started expanding, it became increasingly more difficult to button his shirts, and John certainly noticed. Sherlock made a sincere effort to wear the tightest clothing possible, lending to the illusion that he was barely fitting into his clothes. After a particularly red-faced John suggested it was time to shop for paternity clothes, Sherlock merely shook his head, reminding his husband that there was no real reason to search for larger garments until he had completely outgrown his current clothing. John coughed and resumed his pitiful attempt at not looking at Sherlock's growing stomach. 

 

The day finally came when absolutely none of Sherlock's shirts could reach around his middle anymore. 

"Joooohn!" Shouted Sherlock from the bedroom. 

 

John entered, sipping on a cup of coffee, which he nearly spit out when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's barely three-month pregnant belly. "Wh-what, Sherlock?" 

 

"None of my shirts will button," he complained, pouting slightly for effect as he tried to pull the edges of his shirts to meet. "See? Or…maybe if I laid back and… _sucked in…_ and you buttoned it for me, it would work."

 

John coughed somewhat uncomfortably. "Well…we can give it a go," he said, walking to meet Sherlock at the edge of the bed. The taller man laid back and obligatorily sucked in his belly, defining the curve of baby from the muscles of his abdomen even further. John ran his thumbs over the bulge briefly before pulling the hem of Sherlock's shirt together, starting at the top and working his way slowly towards the bottom of the row of buttons. 

 

Sure enough, the closer he got to Sherlock's middle, the tighter the buttons were, and it was almost unholy how turned on John was by seeing the pull and strain of the fabric over his husband's belly. As he reached the highest curve of Sherlock's stomach, the button very nearly didn't fasten, and John couldn't take it anymore. He abandoned the shirt entirely, lying on top of Sherlock and catching his mouth in a searing kiss. 

 

"You sexy thing. You have no idea what this does to me, seeing you growing with our child inside of you." 

 

Sherlock smiled against his lips - he certainly did know what it did to John, and he fully intended to take advantage of it. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Twins, Sherlock. Not one baby, but two." 

 

Sherlock nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "Twice as much to love, as they say." 

 

John nodded, smiling wanly, thinking of the cost - both financial and physical. Two mouths to feed, two babies crying in the middle of the night, two sets of everything…

 

Then he glanced over and caught Sherlock taking off his jacket, exposing the tight t-shirt beneath. God, it barely covered the bottom of his stomach. Only four months along, and Sherlock was outgrowing clothes at the speed of light. The twins explained that phenomenon. 

 

But rather than changing into a looser-fitting shirt, Sherlock merely stripped down to pants and the snug tee, and then proceeded to wander around the flat, rubbing his belly every few minutes. "Sh…Sherlock? Aren't you going to change into something more…comfortable?" 

 

"Wasn't planning on it, John." John could hear the smirk in his voice. 

 

"Well then. I suppose I'll have to come up with some way to get you out of those tight clothes, then. We wouldn't want our children…restricted." 

 

"Certainly not." John strode over to Sherlock's spot on the couch, pushing the dark-haired man back onto the pillows. Sherlock could see the hunger in his husband's eyes, and he groaned for effect. "Get me out of these clothes, John. They're so tight…so tight around my stomach…" John's eyes blew wide with arousal, but he restrained himself. 

 

Ever so slowly, John's hands found their way to the tiny exposed strip of skin between Sherlock's shirt and pants. His fingers tickled the flesh there, causing goosebumps to prickle over all of Sherlock's skin. John caught the hem of the cotton shirt in between his thumb and forefinger and slowly, painfully slowly, began to pull it up over the curve of Sherlock's belly. His free hand found its way to Sherlock's prick, growing hard beneath his pants. 

 

"John, please. I'm so big and this shirt is so small. I _need_ you to get me out of it, now." John moaned and his hand on Sherlock's cock tightened, enticing a groan from his husband. John pushed Sherlock's shirt up over the bulge of his stomach, and he imagined he could see the skin there expand a little more as the pressure was released. The thought made his cock grow even harder.

 

Sherlock's hands were in John's hair, pulling his husband down for a kiss before wending their way down his muscular back to squeeze at his arse. John's hands twitched in their respective locations, and both men simultaneously decided that it was time to fully divest themselves of their clothing. 

 

Hands pulled at shirts, yanking them over heads or unbuttoning cuffs. Fumbling fingers undid belts, pulling them almost cruelly from their loops before tossing them unceremoniously to the floor beside the couch. Cotton pants found themselves quickly pulled over narrow but widening hips and kicked down to ankles before lying, forgotten, next to a stray cushion. John's pants were the last to go, and Sherlock took pleasure in snapping the red elastic briefs with a rather unmanly giggle before pulling them off their owner. 

 

John snarled at Sherlock's poking fun, but any anger - even feigned - was quickly forgotten as Sherlock's long fingers wrapped themselves around John's already hard prick. A sigh of pleasure escaped John, and his hands soon found home as well, one bracing against Sherlock's hip, the other returning the favor. Soon, both men were fully hard. "In me," Sherlock rasped. "Need you in me." 

 

The hand on Sherlock's cock moved off, sliding down its length and down Sherlock's groin until it reached the tight ring of muscles around Sherlock's hole. A gasp escaped the dark-haired man as one finger, then two, and finally three, entered his opening, scissoring and loosening him up in preparation to be fucked by the man he loved. Sherlock's Omega body, even pregnant, was ready for sex, and lubricant flowed freely from his hole as John prepared him. 

 

Soon, John slid his cock between Sherlock's cheeks, stopping as just the head breached Sherlock's entrance. A sigh of pleasure escaped Sherlock's pink lips, and the sigh turned to a moan as John buried himself up to the hilt. "I'm in you here," John whispered, placing his hand just above Sherlock's groin, "And here," he said, sliding the hand up to Sherlock's belly, where their children grew. Sherlock's cock twitched, and he looked to his husband and smiled. 

 

"I love you," Sherlock said, pulling John down for a kiss.

 

"I love you too," John replied. "And I always will." 

 

Sherlock's hips rolled slightly as John began to move, thrusting in slowly at first and picking up speed. Sherlock reached down to capture John's hands and move them to his belly, and John smiled and kissed his husband. With a pat, he moved one of his hands back to Sherlock's prick, and stroked it in time with his thrusts. 

 

Adjusting his angle, John moved in deeper and hit Sherlock's prostate, causing him to cry in ecstasy. Sherlock's hands in John's hair began to move more frantically, and soon almost all rhythm was lost as Sherlock's walls began to contract around his husband. John began to knot inside him, and the pressure was too great for Sherlock to take. He came, and as his wet heat fluttered around John's cock the other man came as well, body shuddering and barely held up by the hand on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock squirmed in combination pain and pleasure, from the pressure on both his growing belly and from John's knot inside him. 

 

As John's body relaxed, he realized that he was putting undue weight on Sherlock, and so he grasped at Sherlock's hips and shifted them both so that they were laying on their sides, John still firmly held inside his husband. John scooted forward so that Sherlock's belly was pressed against his, and both men sighed in contentment. 

 

This was home. 

 

* * *

 

 

If John knew that Sherlock was taking advantage of him, he never mentioned it. But it was observed that after that day, Sherlock began wearing noticeably tighter clothing. There was nothing that turned John on more than seeing a seemingly forgotten strip of skin showing through a gap between stretched-to-the-limit shirts and low-riding pants. 

 

There was the day that Sherlock wandered around the flat naked but for a pair of tight briefs, pushed down by his ever-expanding girth. Five-month gestating twins tumbled around beneath his skin, visibly distorting the shape of his stomach. John spent hours pressing different parts of Sherlock's belly, rewarded by kicks or jabs of tiny elbows or knees. 

 

Sherlock, ever experimenting, tested the twins' responses to different genres of music. To his delight, he found that his playing the violin whilst barely clothed both relaxed the twins and turned on his husband. 

 

Other times, Sherlock would lie on his back, feigning sleep, while John poked and prodded his belly, enticing the twins to move. Pressing on both sides simultaneously caused the twins to move on top of one another, making Sherlock's belly taller and narrower, whereas pushing gently on the top created a wider, flatter shape. Very rarely did Sherlock chastise John for his hands-on methods, as the pregnant man was usually rewarded with a fantastic blow job when John's curiosity was satiated. 

 

Then there was the time that, at seven months pregnant, Sherlock wore an old, worn t-shirt to dinner, which he then devoured so quickly that John swore he could see the man's belly expand. He must have been at least somewhat correct, as the already-straining hems began to stretch as Sherlock ate and ate, only stopping when the t-shirt actually ripped down one side. Stuffed with food and babies, and horny, Sherlock only managed halfway through rather dirtily eating his dessert before he was nearly attacked by his husband, who fucked him through the night. 

 

Sherlock was chuffed when his belly button finally gave in to the growing pressure and popped out, the little mound of skin sticking proudly out from his stomach. John arrived home from grocery shopping one day to find his husband sitting on the couch, cotton swabs in one hand and damp paper towels in the other, squirming as he cleaned the crevices of the bump of flesh. 

 

"Sherlock?" John asked, breath coming in short bursts. "W-what are you doing?"

 

Sherlock looked up from his ministrations briefly before returning to work. "I finally have the opportunity to clean this damn thing, John, and I am going to take it," he panted, fingers swiping the paper towel over the button and causing the flesh around it to burst out in goosebumps. "Ah god," he moaned. 

 

It was at that point that John realized Sherlock's belly button must be extraordinarily sensitive, and he wasn't squirming in pain but in pleasure as the bump was cleaned. John bounded over to straddle Sherlock's legs and began to lick and suck at the protrusion, and was rewarded with Sherlock's hands roaming through John's hair as the mound was caressed by John's warm tongue. 

 

Seldom was missed an opportunity thereafter to play with Sherlock's belly button. 

 

At eight months, Sherlock had a belly so large that he could no longer sit without his legs spread wide, stomach resting on the chair or couch beneath him. At times like this, Sherlock might purposefully fidget or grunt to catch John's attention, and once he actually reached beneath his stomach and picked it up, hoisting it on top of his lap. The weight and size forced him to push his bottom forward on the chair and lean back - sitting upright with his belly on top of his thighs was long ago deemed impossible. However, he was not in the uncomfortable position for long, as John soon hoisted Sherlock himself up out of the chair and moved him to the much more habitable bed for a long, satiating makeout session. 

 

The closer Sherlock drew to nine months, the more John marveled at his husband. Unlike many of the pregnant women that came into the clinic, Sherlock was free of any and all stretch marks or blemishes, his alabaster skin just as smooth and unmarked as anywhere else on his body. He never complained about back pain, or indigestion, or his size - and John attributed this to his frequent belly-worship sessions. John made sure at all times that Sherlock was fed, healthy, sexually satisfied, and, most of all, that he felt beautiful. To John, there was nothing sexier than a pregnant Sherlock, typically narrow hips splayed wide with the strain of carrying children, arches flat with the added weight, hands constantly supporting his absolutely massive stomach. 

 

However, John's marveling began to turn to worry as Sherlock's due date neared, then passed. Sherlock, for his part, seemed fine and unconcerned. 

 

"John, stop worrying. They'll come when they're ready, and not before." He grunted as an errant kick briefly distorted the round bulge that was sitting on his lap. "And they're obviously not ready." 

 

John knew that Omega pregnancies, unlike those of Betas, usually lasted longer than the typical nine months, male pregnancies even more so, but most pregnancies with twins regardless of gender ended prior to the eighth month. John also knew, though, that Sherlock could never be considered typical by any stretch of the word, so he tried his best not to worry. 

 

One week past his due date. 

 

Then two. 

 

Sherlock was massive, and for the first time in his pregnancy, he began to complain. Muscles in his back strained to hold up his pendulous stomach, and Sherlock was forced to remain in bed for the better part of each day, hot pads spread around himself and pillows supporting his back, belly, and legs. 

 

"You're a real trooper," John said, sliding another hot pad beneath his dramatically curved spine and repositioning one between his shoulders. "You're hardly whimpering. I can't even imagine." 

 

"Well, there's not much point in complaining, is there. Whingeing about the opportunity to carry and birth your child is not something I would do, it's far too important. To both of us." 

 

John hummed in agreement, squishing a pillow beneath Sherlock's belly. "Thank you." He kissed his husband, placing a hand on Sherlock's stomach as he did so. 

 

Sherlock's hands joined John's as he returned the kiss. He broke off as a fierce kick landed on his bladder. "You're welcome. But I wouldn't really mind if they decided to come soon. Ten months, I think, is a little excessive." 

 

"I agree," said John as he helped Sherlock to stand. Sherlock waved off John's assistance and shuffled to the loo. He turned as he entered the doorway, shooting John a smile. John smiled back, but the expression dropped off his face as Sherlock shut the door. He drew his mobile from his pocket and checked his texts. 

 

From Sherlock's doctor: _Can't do a caesarean on a male Omega pregnancy, John. Best thing to do is wait it out._

 

John sighed. How much more waiting could they do? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a flush, and moments later, Sherlock exited the bathroom, one hand on his back and the other under his huge belly. It truly was a monstrous creation. 

 

Sherlock caught John's eye. "Go on. Measure it, I want to know." 

 

John drew a tape measure from the drawer next to the bed, its safekeeping place with its partner, a small black book they'd used to keep track of Sherlock's growth. John strode over to Sherlock and, snugging himself into Sherlock's back, looped the tape under his husband's belly. Sherlock assisted by grabbing the tape and moving it to the widest point on his girth. At Sherlock's nod, John drew the two ends of the tape together. 

 

"Oh, Sherlock. You poor thing." 

 

"What's the damage?" 

 

"152 centimeters." 

 

"Good god."

 

"And feeling every one, I'm sure." 

 

"Absolutely. Let's do fundal weight now." Sherlock moved to the bed, where he laid down on his back - with some difficulty - and pulled up his shirt. "Hurry with this one, John. I can't…breathe for long…like this." 

 

John felt around the base of Sherlock's belly, moving upwards until he found the top of his uterus - just below his belly button. Holding the zero end of the tape at the base of his pubic bone, he strung the tape along the curve of Sherlock's belly until he reached the top of the uterus. Scratching the numbers down into the book, he dropped the tape and hoisted his husband up into a semi-sitting position. Sherlock heaved a sigh, able to breathe at last, and draped his arm over his impressive stomach. 

 

"Come out with it, John, what was the measurement?" 

 

"Well, we do this one in inches, now, don't forget." Sherlock shot him a glare that clearly said, _How could I ever forget anything?_ John shook his head and, picking up the book, said, "You measure about 56." 

 

"Fifty-six weeks pregnant. You two are killing me," Sherlock said. An odd look passed over his face, but as he rubbed his belly in small circles the expression passed. "Talk me to sleep, John." 

 

Sliding into bed next to his husband, John began to tell Sherlock stories. From fairy tales to renditions of his primary school adventures, John Watson talked Sherlock down from his perpetual mental high and into the deep, dark, velvety arms of sleep. Soon, John joined him there. 

 

John awoke to Sherlock's sleep-deepened voice murmuring into his ear. "John. John, wake up." Full lips brushed across his forehead. "John." 

 

"What is it, Sherlock." A warm, long-fingered hand grasped his wrist and moved it to an iron-hard expanse of skin across Sherlock's stomach. John pressed down, but the muscles were unrelenting. "A contraction?" 

 

"Yes, John. I've been having them all day. Not too strong, or pressing, but they've been getting longer as of late. I put off telling you for as long as I thought I could." 

 

"Oh, Sherlock. You should have said something. You should've been in the hospital hours ago." 

 

"Or I could have been at home, in relative comfort, with my mate. I do not intend to spend very much time in hospitals at all. They are a waste of time. I have you, my doctor, here at home." 

 

"Yes, but I'm not an OB. I can fix you if you're broken, but there's not much I can do when you're in labor." 

 

"Well. A doctor is a doctor, John. I vastly prefer you over the woman we've been visiting throughout the pregnancy." 

 

"She knows what she's doing, Sherlock."

 

"I fully understand that. I choose to ignore it. I like you better." 

 

John sighed. "Well, let's get you to the hospital, then." He moved to pull Sherlock into a sitting position.

 

Sherlock resisted. "You misunderstand me. I said that hospitals are a waste of time, and that I do not intend to spend much time in them. You are a doctor." 

 

John tugged on his arms again, but Sherlock stayed put. "I am a doctor. But not the doctor you need." 

 

"Well, you shall have to be. I am not going anywhere." Sherlock crossed his arms over the top of his stomach and put on a childlike pout. 

 

"No, you are going to the hospital." 

 

"No, I am not!" 

 

"Sherlock!" 

 

"Well, would you look at that. My waters have just broken. It would appear that I couldn't go anywhere, even if I wanted to." 

 

John's eyes went wide and frantic. "Oh god. What do we do now? I can't deliver a baby! I've never had to deliver a baby!" 

 

Sherlock rose with some degree of difficulty and shuffled over to his husband, pulling him into a hug around his stomach. "John," he murmured into the shorter man's hair, "I'm an Omega. I'm built for this, having babies. You're an Alpha. You're built for delivering babies. People just like us - much duller than us - have been doing it just fine for years. We will be fine. Besides-" Sherlock said, grunting and bending slightly under the force of another contraction- "We've got hours to go. They're…they're barely strong enough to feel." 

 

John exhaled once. Twice. Three times. "Right. You're right, Sherlock. Now, erm. Back to bed?"

 

"Not the bed, I don't think. Couch, maybe. I'm tired of the bed." Before letting John lead him from the room, though, he grabbed his fluffiest pillow and warmest blanket and, one hand under his stomach and the other around his husband's waist, pulled him in for a kiss. As John guided him down the stairs and settled Sherlock in on the couch, Sherlock smiled. "See? You're a natural." 

 

John just shook his head exasperatedly. "D'you want some tea?" At Sherlock's nod, he bustled off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Even from the kitchen, John could tell when Sherlock was having contractions. He could also tell that the man was far more uncomfortable than he was letting on, and that, even over the short period of time that it took to make tea, the contractions were coming on stronger and faster than before. 

 

As John brought the two steaming mugs back out to the couch, he stopped to pick up a bottle of aspirin. Sherlock's sharp voice startled him. "No. No drugs, John." 

 

"Sherlock. You're in pain." 

 

"Obviously. But I also do not want to be compromised. If I don't have full control over my brain, John, then what do I have?" John just sighed and set the bottle back down. 

 

"Your tea." 

 

"Indeed. Thank you, John." Sherlock's hand trembled as the force of another contraction surged through him. "Perhaps…I should be removed of my clothing before it gets to be too difficult." John nodded and helped Sherlock first out of his too-tight shirt and then, with noted difficulty, out of his trousers and pants as well. 

 

It was only then that John noticed how aroused Sherlock was. His cock stood at full attention, pressed firmly to the base of his massive belly and copiously leaking precome. "Sherlock?" 

 

"I did say, John, that my body was built for this. It's fulfilling my hormonal nature to bear and deliver your children, and there is a certain degree of pleasure built in because of it." 

 

John flushed. "Do you…want me to do something about it?" 

 

"Only if you want to," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Although you may have a slight problem yourself when you're finished, that I don't think I can help you with. That, and you may be slightly disturbed by the appearance of…things…down there." 

 

"…Things? What…things?" Sherlock gestured absently and John took that as a signal to look. "Oh. Those sort of things. I kind of expected it, Sherlock, they have to come out somehow." 

 

"I have a vagina, John. I am a male and I now have a vagina." 

 

"You are also a male who has a functioning uterus and is currently pregnant and in labor with twins." 

 

"Point well taken." The point was even better taken as John's capable hands found their way to Sherlock's leaking cock, fingers wrapping around its girth. They twisted and pulled, stroked and fondled, until finally with a grunt and a full-body shiver, Sherlock came across his belly. John grabbed a cloth and wiped it off, and Sherlock grasped his wrist, pulling him down for a quick kiss before slumping back and waiting for the next contraction.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Sherlock had shifted positions again. He was now down on all fours on the carpet, cushions beneath his knees and supporting his belly. "John. Are we getting close?" Warm fingers carefully entered Sherlock's birth canal, measuring the dilation of the muscles there. 

 

"Nearly," came the answer. "Can you feel them shifting?"

 

"Yes," said Sherlock, panting. "One of them has moved quite significantly into position. I can feel the pressure. I think…I think I need to move some more." 

 

"Walking around?" asked John, "Or just into a different position?"

 

"Walking. I think the gravity will help. I just…oh, the pressure, John." Sherlock squeezed John's hand as he carefully rose, feeling one of the babies' heads grinding its way down into the birth canal. Sherlock placed one hand at the very base of his stomach, where it joined in with his groin, and could feel the baby moving into position. "John. Feel this." He guided John's hand down, and John inhaled sharply as he too felt the movement. 

 

A contraction gripped Sherlock's midsection and John looked on as the muscles tightened, visibly changing the shape of Sherlock's stomach. A hand placed on the side felt rock-hard skin shivering under the pressure. "Jesus, Sherlock." 

 

Sherlock grunted and panted his way through the contraction, determinedly ignoring his body's demands to push. He wasn't ready for that exquisite torture just yet. The contraction finally released, but Sherlock had but a brief respite before another, stronger one took its place. He let John lead him around the flat, stopping every few moments for another contraction. As they passed the mantle, Sherlock looked fondly at skull, and at his and John's photos next to it. 

 

The first one, a framed photo of the infamous deerstalker. The second, one of him and John away in Scotland for a case. Another of a case, this time in Italy. Yet another, the largest, a black and white of the two men on their wedding day. Following those were a series of smaller portraits documenting Sherlock's pregnancy - the first ultrasound, the first time he felt one of them move, one of Sherlock and John during a retreat in Sherlock's sixth month, and one, one Sherlock hadn't seen, of him sleeping on the couch, hands intertwined resting on top of his stomach. That one was recent. He caught John looking at him, and smiled, squeezing his hand. "Ready?" John whispered. 

 

"Ready."

 

* * *

 

 

"JOHN!" Sherlock wailed, in the throes of the strongest contraction yet. "JOHN, OH GOD I NEED YOU." 

 

"I'm right here, darling. I'm right next to you." John's warm fingers brushed wet curls from Sherlock's forehead. Beads of sweat quickly replaced them as Sherlock pushed through the contraction. 

 

"John, I. I need you. To help me, help me push. Put your, your hands…here. And help me." John's hands gripped the taut skin, slick with sweat, and with prayers to whatever gods existed began to push with Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock, feel his pain, feel the pressure, feel the movement of the children held within him as they struggled to enter the world. 

 

"Come on, Sherlock, you're doing wonderfully. Doing so well. Do you need anything?" 

 

"Just you, John. John. John." Sherlock repeated his name like a mantra, using it to focus his energy on bringing his children forward, into their lives. His husband's name grew into a wail as the contraction peaked and the pressure, that unbelievable pain, grew even more, threatening to tear him apart from the inside. He felt John's hands leave his stomach as his husband moved between his legs. "John, John, John."

 

"Ssh, Sherlock. The baby's coming, I can see its head. Oh god, I can see its tiny head. Keep pushing, darling. You can do it, I know you can. Come on now." Sherlock screamed again, an ethereal wail that echoed off the walls, filled the room. A sound of anguish and labor and love, always love. 

 

And then Sherlock felt another person enter the room. Mrs. Hudson. Of course. Her thin voice joined John's. "There, there, Sherlock. You're about to meet your first child. Yours and John's first child. Isn't that lovely? Come on, dearie. Push, there's a love." Sherlock's face contorted in pain and he grunted, a raw, animalistic noise. He felt that pressure grow even again, but this time at the end there was release, and a cry from between his legs as the child's head exited Sherlock's body. 

 

Tears streamed down Sherlock's face, unwanted, perfect tears. He heard John's voice distantly, telling him through a haze of pain that the shoulders were nearly out, that after the shoulders were out the rest would be easy, and Sherlock knew that it was mostly a lie but he nodded his head and pushed anyway, and it was agony. But once again John's hands found their way to Sherlock's belly and he helped him push again, and that was all Sherlock needed was John, his John, and the cries grew louder and then there was a baby.

 

A tiny, perfect baby that Mrs. Hudson handed him, wet and bloody and scrunched but it was a baby, and it was half his and half John's, and it was perfect and it was beautiful and nothing hurt. This baby, this tiny human, was laying on Sherlock's chest and its tiny legs and arms were waving around but oh _god_ the contractions were coming again. There was another one, another baby. Somehow he'd forgotten. 

 

Mrs. Hudson tried to take the first one away, but Sherlock wouldn't let her, because it was _his_. "Come now, Sherlock, be a dear and let me clean your daughter up-" 

 

Daughter. 

 

He and John had a daughter. And that knowledge was enough to let Sherlock hand the baby, their _daughter_ , over to Mrs. Hudson. And then John told him to push, and he did, because it's what John told him to do. And the pain, oh god the pain was still horrid, it was the worst thing Sherlock had ever felt, and the pressure again was unbearable, but it was faster this time, his muscles contracting and forcing their second child into the world. 

 

And then there was another cry, and in between pushing Mrs. Hudson handed him his first child, his _daughter,_ and then John helped him push again, bless him, and then their second child was born. 

 

It was simultaneously the worst pain and the greatest pleasure Sherlock had ever felt. As the pain began to recede and his second child, a son, a _son,_ was laid next to the first, John joined him, and just before she left Mrs. Hudson covered Sherlock and John with Sherlock's warm blanket and they fell asleep, surrounded by a comforting cloud of Omega hormones and Alpha hormones and just a hint of loving Beta, and the smells of their two children, and Sherlock was lulled to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Sherlock, love, you need to wake up." 

 

Sherlock shook his head, opening his eyes blearily against the blindingly white light streaming through the curtains. God, he ached. He reached down, trying to find the source of the issue, but was startled awake when his hand went clear down to his groin, unobstructed by his stomach. Where…? 

 

Oh. 

 

"Good morning, John. Where are my children?" 

 

"Sleeping in their cots just over there, Sherlock. Now I need to get you up, slowly, and clean you off, as you're covered in blood and…spunk…and other bodily fluids. And while you're soaking, I've got to set to work on this carpet." Sherlock looked down at himself, naked, and saw that he was, indeed, rather disgusting, as was the floor beneath him. Suddenly, a small contraction gripped his stomach again, and he grunted in pain as he passed…

 

"Ah, yes, that'll be the afterbirth. I was wondering when that would make its appearance. All done with that, now." 

 

Sherlock took John's proffered hand, and allowed himself to be pulled gently to his feet. It was strange, there was suddenly a shift in his center of gravity as he was no longer carrying an extra forty pounds on his front. He staggered for a moment before regaining his balance and shuffling slowly and painfully to the bath. 

 

Sherlock paused for a moment as he entered the bath, and took a look in the mirror. Ignoring his sweat-encrusted hair and haggard face, he focused instead on his midsection, where flaps of skin hung down over a protruding pouch. "I look like I'm still pregnant," he said, pressing gingerly on his stomach. Sherlock imagined he could actually pick up the skin, but at the moment he was still too sore to try. 

 

"You look beautiful. You'll recover and be even more beautiful than you were before." John grinned into Sherlock's shoulder before patting him on the bottom, leaving him to soak in the warm bath he'd drawn for his husband. 

 

Sherlock sank gratefully into the bubbles, reveling in the ability to wash himself free of assistance. It was liberating, but there was certainly a part of him that missed having his children so close to him. Gently, Sherlock scrubbed away the crusted blood and bodily fluids and, yes, _spunk_ , from his skin, and he lay in the bath until the water was too cold to tolerate. 

 

Slowly, Sherlock rose and toweled himself off, and once he was shaven, combed, and dressed in his blue silk robe and pyjama pants, went to say good morning to his children. His and John's children. 

 

Walking over to the cribs in the corner of the room, Sherlock's face broke into a smile as he saw, for the first time, his two babies lying side by side, clean and fresh. John appeared at his side, arm sliding easily around Sherlock's waist as they stared down at the children they had created together. 

 

"We probably ought to have thought of names," said John. 

 

"Probably," said Sherlock, not mentioning the fact that he'd set up a mental catalog of baby names months before. 

 

"I like Anna for a girl, and Benjamin for a boy." 

 

Sherlock looked down at John, taken aback. "Those…those were two of the names I had thought of. But months ago. Are you sure we didn't discuss this?"

 

"Certain, Sherlock. And if we had, you'd remember." 

 

"I suppose you're right." 

 

"Anna and Benjamin it is, then?" 

 

"Anna and Benjamin Holmes-Watson. They do have nice rings to them, don't they?" 

 

John gave Sherlock a kiss in answer. 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft's phone buzzed with a text from his brother. 

 

_Welcome to the world, Anna and Benjamin Holmes-Watson. SH_

 

Attached was a photo of the hours-old children, lying side by side in his family's antique crib. 

 

Mycroft smiled. _Congratulations, Sherlock. Give John, Anna, and Benjamin my best. MH_


End file.
